


you taste like honey, honey

by ashley-amelie (kitana)



Series: what comes naturally [1]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Accidentally High, Altered Mental States, Frottage, M/M, Marijuana, Mind/Mood Altering Substances, Stoned Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-23
Updated: 2014-02-23
Packaged: 2018-01-13 13:28:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1228135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kitana/pseuds/ashley-amelie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Matthew is much more suited to cold weather, he realizes, as he walks up the pavement leading to Alfred’s Michigan home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	you taste like honey, honey

Matthew is much more suited to cold weather, he realizes, as he walks up the pavement leading to Alfred’s Michigan home. He’s barely left the confines of his air-conditioned vehicle, yet he can already feel sweat prickling across the back of his neck and along his hairline. He prefers to spend his time in the parts of his country where the summer highs barely climb upward of 25 degrees, so he finds that his usual attire of jeans and a tee here -- where the temperature is riding nicely at 32 degrees -- to be much too warm.

He rings Alfred’s doorbell and waits. With sweat trickling down into the neckline of his shirt, Matthew thinks that this is something he should’ve remembered, too, the oppressiveness of America’s heat in this region. Not quite as bad as the South, certainly, but Matthew knows there’s a reason the Midwest is considered Alfred’s Heartland; and it has nothing to do with his economy.

He waits, longer, and tries not to fidget where his shirt is clinging to his body and the humid, summer heat encapsulates him. Even his curl hangs limply in his face, not unlike a wilting flower. Matthew blows out a breath. The best thing you can do when you’re hot, he remembers hearing from somewhere, is to be completely still. Nevertheless, Alfred is awfully slow at getting to the door.

Finally, when Matt thinks that he's seconds from becoming a puddle on the ground, the door swings wide and blissfully cool air conditioning blasts him in the face. “Hey Matty,” Alfred says cheerfully. The blonde has his normal, thousand-gigawatt smile firmly in place, despite looking ridiculous with his hair plastered wetly to his face and Texas teetering precariously on his nose. "Come on in!"

Alfred's invitation is cursory at best, really; Matthew's already halfway over the door's threshold, squeezing through the space between Alfred and the jamb by the time Alfred finishes his sentence. Saved now from a certain, fiery death as chilly air washes over him, he opens his mouth and says, "Took you long enough."

Pause.

Okay, so those weren't the first words Matthew had been intended to use -- he planned for something more along the lines of "hey, how's it going?" -- but, well, here he is. He figures he should apologize for the rudeness, even though he's known Alfred long enough to know that even his purposeful passive-aggressiveness is hardly acknowledged; but in the time it takes him to come to that conclusion, the moment's gone and it doesn't matter, because Alfred's breezing by him, smelling of earth and roses, and beckoning him further into his home.

"Sorry about that, I was still in the shower when you rang," Alfred says conversationally, leading Matthew down a long hallway. "I had a late night, and then I kinda forgot I invited you over?" He punctuates that last part with a sheepish laugh. Matthew watches him rub the back of his neck, part and parcel of his embarrassment. “Arthur’s been on my case since that whole spying thing came to light a little while ago and there's just been no freaking end to the paperwork, questions, and chamber meetings.”

The nation's living room -- if one could call it that -- comes into view then. The simple sofa Matt remembers has been replaced by a modern circular couch, set up in the middle of the room and facing the largest TV screen and entertainment center he's ever seen. Leave it to America to be on the cutting edge of in-your-face technology. "You're lucky, Matt," Alfred continues his monologue, plopping down on his strange, round couch. "It's enough to make your head spin."

"Not really," Matthew says with a shrug that Alfred doesn't see, following suit to monopolize the opposite side of Alfred's sofa.

Honestly, Matthew has his own thoughts about that fiasco -- most of them squarely in the ‘Alfred, your people are getting a little out of hand’ territory -- but he’s not here for that. It’s been so long since he’s seen Alfred for an occasion other than official nation business, he’s loathe to have it as the first conversation topic of the day. So he changes it.

"Hey, Al, you said you have a new game?"

That has the desired effect; it gets Alfred bounding up off of the couch and across the room to grasp the video game's case.  

"Oh, yeah! Check this out!"

Alfred all but shoves it into Matt's hand and he turns the case to take in the colourful characters and synopsis. Princesses, brothers, and toads, eh? It's one of Kiku's co-op platformers, requiring a measure of speed and skill to jump and defeat enemies before the time runs out. He's not half-bad at these. He grins up at Alfred, who is smiling back down at him expectantly, and hands the case back to him.

"Sounds good."

"Great, catch!" Then, "Be right back!"

Matthew barely manages to avoid having a hefty, white controller bean him in the face. "I swear you...," he starts, then trails off, already giving up as Alfred leaves the room. He's used to this, too, Alfred's cluelessness that borders on dangerous. For himself, anyway. Hardly any of America's deeds came back to haunt just them alone. Matt twirls the controller in his fingers idly, banishing thoughts he didn't care to be having right now anyway.

His eyes flicker over the room restlessly, finding nothing specific to focus on. Plastered with posters and art, this home feels both familiar and foreign to Matthew. There's a few new things around he's never seen before, odds and ends of technology and souvenirs, but beyond that, there's a consistency, a deliberance with which Alfred's house is decorated. There's something of every American era shoved in the corners, nooks and crannies -- it's a wonder, with as many things as Alfred hoards, that there's any space for movement at all.

When Alfred returns, he returns with his hands full, balancing two tall glasses of milk and a plate of brownies. He sets them down in the middle of the couch -- Matthew's a little impressed to discover it doubles as a table -- before procuring his own controller and settling back against the sofa. Matthew notices that Alfred's barefoot when he folds his legs up beneath himself, and it prompts him to kick off his shoes and do the same.

"Tony told me that Netherlands came by and dropped these off for my birthday," Alfred says, reaching and snagging a brownie for himself. Between bites, "These are really good, wow, you should try one! I mean, I knew they would be, they make good chocolate over there, you know?" He reaches for another and stuffs it in his mouth, pressing buttons on his controller with his other hand to bring his game system online. "That dark creamy kind that's a little bitter? These are like that, super good."

Matt smiles and pushes up his glasses; he certainly doesn’t need to be told twice to indulge in chocolate. As he goes for a brownie of his own, the sound that comes blaring out of Alfred’s speaker system startles him enough that he fumbles it, nearly dropping the confection before it makes it to his mouth. He ends up cramming the whole thing in desperately as a way of averting disaster; as is typical, it opens him up to a teasing laugh and grin from Alfred. The fudgy chocolate leaves his fingers stained and he licks them, wiping them clean on his pants, before choosing a character.

"Hey now," Matthew says, voice tinged with amusement and just a little embarrassment, "At least it's not all over my face, unlike a certain someone. You can't even feel it, can you?" There's a spot of fudge right outside the corner of Alfred's mouth, and tiny specks on his chin; Matthew is undecided on whether it's cute or comical. A little bud of fondness blossoms in his chest, acutely reminding him of how long it's been since he's been this close to Al.

Meeting here, at one of Al's homes dotted across their shared border, has its own meaning, he thinks. Matthew has never thought to ask any other nations whether they've experienced something similar; no one else in the world shares a border like he and Alfred do, so of course they wouldn't know anything about blurring he feels at his edges sometimes, where he senses the essence of Alfred, of America, bleeding through. He doesn't feel the saturation quite so much when he and Al are miles apart, but in close proximity now, he can feel it creeping through his veins.

"Huh?" is Alfred's response; Matt almost misses it, lost in his thoughts as he had been. Al licks his lips once, twice, then turns to Matthew as the Canadian decides to chase down a second brownie with milk. His face is the very picture of confusion and the chocolate smudge, well, it's still there too. "What're you talking about, dude? There's nothing there!"

Matthew snorts, feeling his lips curve into a softer smile. Definitely cute. "Sure there is," he says, leaning over without warning to brush his thumb across Alfred's cheek to rub away the bit of brownie. He pops his thumb in his mouth and licks it clean. Alfred catches Matt's gaze over his glasses, a faint flush creeping across his nose. There's a moment there where Matt can't tell what Al's thinking, his expression suddenly gone opaque. He's still trying to decipher it when Alfred breaks the silence (longer in his head than in actuality, he realizes) and says, expression open and readable and smiling again,

"Ready? We can start from Level 1."

The next hour and a half is spent encountering the 'Game Over!' screen more times than Matthew has fingers. Still, he can't help his giggle when his fingers slip and his character lands on top of spikes, wailing in an adorably sad voice, 'oh no!' before falling off of the screen. Alfred bumps him through his laughter -- when did they get so close? -- and says, "Only you, Matt, only you could get worse at playing! How many times have you died now?"

Alfred's looking at him now, a silly little grin plastered across his face, clearly baiting the Canadian. Matthew bumps him back, can feel his face mirroring Al's as he counters mildly, "Only two more times than you."

Moments like these, Matthew can see why everyone assumes they're twins, even though they're not, not exactly; yet when they're like this, touching thigh-to-thigh, shoulder-to-shoulder and sitting just south of their shared border, well. He gets it, sort of. He'd try to focus on it more, but his body is buzzing, and he feels like he's existing both inside and outside of it at the same time. His head feels funny and his mouth dry; there is a pressure, a warmth, and then a second of disorientation before he recognizes that he's on his back.

He's on his back, and Alfred's lying on top of him. There's a vibration against his collarbone and then -- oh. _Oh_. Craning his neck to look at the blonde lying on him, Matthew licks his lips and says, "I'm sorry, what?"

Alfred's flush against him from chest to thigh, body weight pressing into him, into the couch. There's a pinch where Texas's rim digs into his skin and the soft, tickling dryness of Al's moving lips, so Matthew feels, more than hears, when the American repeats,  "Let me lay on you, 'kay? Feel weird."

"Oh," Matt says, the word falling dumbly from his lips as he relaxes his head back against the couch. Even if he had any objections to Al sprawling over him, he couldn't do anything about it -- the buzzing, tingling sensation is going full force now and his limbs feel heavy, leaden. Just bringing his arm up to sling it across Alfred's back and make himself more comfortable feels not unlike wading underwater. "Me too."

"Hmm?"

"I said, I feel weird too."

Alfred makes a noise of acknowledgement and shifts on top of Matthew, burying his face deeper in the crook of Matt's neck despite Matt's mild protest of _Al, you're crushing Texas into my neck._ "Reminds me of that one time in the 70s..."

Matthew looks lazily towards the ceiling, Al's words percolating slowly in his head. He rolls them around, searching for a matching memory. It takes a bit but he does drag one up, a hazy vision that gradually sharpens in his mind's eye. He remembers Al coming to him one night, eyes blown wide and grinning madly as he pushed a small paper cylinder - a joint, he later learned - and a lighter into his hand and said, _Matty, you gotta try this. Trust me._

And he did, because it was hard not to go along with Alfred in general, let alone when the blonde fixated on him, actually _looking_ at him and _seeing_ him. All the blazing brightness of America, narrowed down and focused on _him_. That night, he ended up with Alfred's tongue in his mouth, Alfred's hands in his pants, and a line of hickeys trailing from his nape to the small of his back. He knew they were there from the way his shower stung his skin the next day.

The memory leaves Matthew with a shivery feeling and he becomes sharply aware again of Alfred's weight on him, the nation's stomach pressed snugly up against his crotch, breath ghosting over his collarbone. He and Al have only touched a handful of times in their lives together, and it's always been at Alfred's prompting.  Therefore, Matt doesn't find it too much of a leap of logic to poke Al (hard) in whatever part his hand is closest to and say, "You planned this?"

That makes Alfred shift, push himself up and look down at Matthew with cloudy sky blue eyes -- _yeah_ , the Canadian thinks, heartbeat picking up speed, _just like the 70s_. "Planned what?"

"This," Matt says; then he pauses, wets his lip, because Al's gaze has snapped to his mouth and he's pretty sure where this visit is going to go now, where he wants this to go, but. "To get me like this," he finishes.

A lopsided smile spreads across Alfred's face. "Nope! Dunno, have to ask Tony later. 'S good, though, right?"

"Yeah." The word comes to Matt's lips before he can even pretend he's given it any thought. Embarrassment about this takes a moment to catch up to him; he tries to quiet the jittery excitement in his belly and says, more thoughtfully, "Yeah."

"Cool." Alfred is still hovering over him, eyes hazy and focused-not focused on the nation beneath him. Matthew leans up (later, Matthew will wonder where this wild hair came from), wrapping his arms around Al's neck to steady himself, and presses his lips to that lopsided smile.

Matthew doesn't know what he expected, isn't even sure he expected anything, but he's surprised nonetheless that Alfred responds nearly immediately, yielding to his kisses, eyes falling closed behind crooked lenses. He rubs his lips against Alfred's, nips and licks and bites, pulling back when he's breathless only for Alfred to follow him down, licking, biting more, until they're back where they started, Al pressing into him, into the couch.

Fingers digging into Alfred's shoulders, Matt thinks he might suffocate like this -- and it would be perfectly fine --  with the way Al doesn't relent, barely lets him get in a gasp before he's sealing their lips wetly together again. Not that he isn't contributing to his own demise, sucking on Alfred's tongue every time it's offered to him, dragging up dirty noises from the back of the blonde nation's throat.

Desire ripples through Matt to pool in his groin, where he can feel Al's cock, thick, warm, nestled right up against his own. He turns his head to the side abruptly, shuddering, when he finally, absolutely, needs to breathe. Glasses skewed sideways, Matthew's world is a half-blurry mess and Al's voice is in his ear moments later, sounding as breathless as he feels. "Jesusfuck, Matty, where'd you learn to kiss like that?"

Matthew chooses to answer with a laugh, rolling his hips up as he pulls Al into another kiss with a palm curled over the back of his neck, his other hand bunching up in Al's shirt. Alfred grinds down against him, making a noise into his mouth that makes Matt's cock throb and pulse insistently. He's hit, suddenly, with the desire to try his very, very best to hear that sound from Alfred again. He rubs himself against Alfred shamelessly, greedily, pleased to feel the blonde's fingers tangle and tighten in his hair. His world narrows down to Al's clothed cock rutting hard against him and Al's filthy mouth mumbling _Matty_ and _christ_ and _fucking_ _hot_ between kisses and breaths.

It's good, it's really good, but then Matt feels Alfred twining his curl gently around his finger and he has no control over what comes next, the messy spill of _ohmygodAlyesyesfuckyes_ into Alfred's mouth, coming hard as the blonde tugs, twirls, tugs again. He doesn't know how long he rocks and grinds against Alfred, pleasure washing through his body in hot waves to leave him a boneless wreck. Matthew becomes aware in stages; Al's weight on him, the trembling in his limbs, the dampness between his legs, the bruised tenderness of his lips.

The final stage is realizing that Alfred's talking again, which makes Matthew huff out a soft laugh and interrupt with a plain, "What?"

"Come on, don't make me repeat all of that!"

Even though Al says it with a laugh in his voice, nudging Matthew's neck playfully with his nose, the Canadian can't fight the twinge of guilt that floats up through the pleasant fuzziness he still feels. "Sorry, I'm listening now, promise."

"I said," and this time, there's a note of uncertainty in Alfred's voice; Matthew can count on one hand how many times he's heard anything like it. "Can we do this, um, again? More?" Alfred wiggles his hips a little and, though the wetness there is a little uncomfortable, it's mostly sexy and it nearly distracts Matthew from hearing Alfred finish, "Later, too, like maybe regularly?"

"Alfred, are you... are you asking me to go steady?" In hindsight, that sounds a little ridiculous, but Matthew can't help that it's the first thing to pop in mind.

Al mouths his next words against Matthew's skin and Matt realizes it's in response to the fact that he's been idly rubbing his fingers over the short hairs at the nape of the blonde's neck. "Maybe. I guess?"

Matthew feels a flutter in his belly, in his chest, and he giggles, giggles because they're both so stoned they've barely moved in ages -- _Netherlands!_ a little voice pipes in the back of his mind -- and _now_ , of all times in the history of _ever_ , Alfred is asking him out? He giggles until he's hiccuping and Alfred's wriggling out of his embrace to give him some space, and then for a little longer after too.

He finally gets himself under control when he blinks up to where Alfred's straddling his waist and finds the American looking down at him with a confused, mildly dejected expression. That twinge of guilt makes a reappearance so Matthew looks him in the eye, smiling in a way he hopes is reassuring, and says, "This isn't a yes, but... ask me when we're sober, alright?"

That brings that familiar, wide, American smile back to Alfred's face. "Deal."

 

**Author's Note:**

> a couple of notes:
> 
> \-- referencing why Alfred smells of roses: America's national flower is the rose  
> \-- circular couch? http://www.avetexfurniture.com/images/products/9/5259/add_round-sofa-2276-_2_2.jpg


End file.
